The house was drafty, as though ghosts truly did inhabit the place. Mitch wished Lucas had a fire burning in the stone fireplace or something. Anything to soften the bite of the night.
Like always, the place looked more like a curated museum than a home with all the bookshelves, polished marble surface, and old paintings hanging exactly where they should be. Yet Mitch couldn’t deny there was a strange warmth to it, too. The kind that came from too many books stacked on the floor, an open journal on the coffee table, and the faint smell of cedar, old books, and spilled alcohol in the air.
He shook his head, imagining what Roxie must have thought when she saw the house. He looked at Lucas, who was sitting on the edge of an old leather armchair, his sleeves rolled up, staring at the half-e
